


The Forest

by 1nkmistress_1ra



Category: Summoner Series - Taran Matharu
Genre: Basically, Fletcher's Expertise, Gen, I didn't expect to proceed with this., No Demons., i dunno, it comes back in later chapters., referenced rape in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2020-10-11 16:21:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20549096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1nkmistress_1ra/pseuds/1nkmistress_1ra
Summary: Fletcher and Tarquin are trapped in the forest with no demons and no magic, and something is hunting them.





	1. The Fall

They took the tumble with very little stride. Both of their summoning patches were ripped and scraped well and thorough that the pentacles were interrupted. Fletcher was lucky enough to land in a puddle of mud and moss, which Tarquin hit his head against a rock farther out into the area.

“Damn it!” Tarquin cursed upon seeing his leather patch. He threw it into the bushes of leaves, sealing its status as Lost. “This is your fault!” He turned to Fletcher.

Fletcher was doing as well as Tarquin: disheveled and losing his patience.

“Oh, it is,” Fletcher said, dull. Strain and sarcasm gripped his voice as it relied on it. Fletcher scraped and dusted his jacket from the excess dirt and mud.

“Yes!” Tarquin said.

Fletcher slung his bow and arrows onto his back while Tarquin ranted on about the incident. He heard the screech of both his demons above them. He strung his bow and nocked an arrow, but didn’t draw, and began to trek forward.

“Listen to me, Wulf, if it was one thing, you and your demon--” Tarquin started, but Fletcher cut him off.

“Shut up, I hear something,” Fletcher said nad tried to listen.

“Trebius! Get down here!” Tarquin shouted up the cliff, where the Hydra stood. Trebius looked down pawed at the cliffside like it was a rug, causing a few pebbles to fall. But he didn’t dare go down. Neither Ignatius nor Athena built up the courage to follow Fletcher, either.

The cliff was steep, protruding. Athena could have gotten down, Ignatius could have gotten down, but Trebius wouldn’t have made it down without sending the rest of the cliff tumbling.

Fletcher rolled his eyes and trudged further into the land. The air was humid and fog billowed around their ankles. The metallic smell of decay was faint in their nostrils, which didn’t give them much hope.

“Get down here!” Tarquin shouted again and Trebius tried this time. He reached a limb down over the edge before retreating after loose dirt started to fall under his weight. He disappeared beyond the edge shortly after that.

Fletcher wandered around, trying to block out Tarquin’s rant about disloyal demons. He pushed past the large leaves of the forest before gasping. A river! Which meant life was close. Which meant food. He smiled and approached the sound of the river until he saw an antler. He was right! He watched his footing, keeping his footfall silent as he hid behind the bushed. Seeing the animal in full view, he sighed. An elk.

Fletcher took a deep breath. He’d hunted elk before, of course. He considered them his greatest triumphs back in Pelt. Then he heard a roar. The elk ran before Fletcher could shoot. “Tarquin, control Trebius, you just let it get away!” Fletcher gestured to the direction of the elk.

“Oh.. my apologies Lord Wulf for your incompetent skills in hunting.”

“So, you can do better?” Fletcher said with a raised eyebrow. Sure, he liked a challenge but as far as he knew, Tarquin was skilled in magic.

“Of course.”

“Alright.” Fletcher forced the bow into Tarquin’s hands then unslung his quiver and slammed it into Tarquin’s stomach, letting it go when he takes it. “We can follow the river and hopefully come across a village. If we’re lucky I get to see you hunt.”

Tarquin looked back up at the edge of the cliff where Ignatius and Athena disappeared. They started the trek.

By the river, they both caught sight of a doe. Tarquin gave Fletcher a smug look and nocked the bow. Fletcher already pointed out a few flaws in Tarquin’s stance, but nothing was said. His shoulders were too tense and his arrow was barely anchored to his face and more to his neck, and his bow arm was twisted out in a way that the inner elbow faced up. Getting that doe would be by sheer luck.

The arrow landed short in the river. The doe reared back and ran into the woods. Despite Fletcher’s silence, Tarquin gave a quick, “Shut up.”

“How about this, I’ll hunt for the rest of the night.” Fletcher took his bow back and retrieved the arrow from the mud. “Start a fire, I’ll probably find a fish at this rate.” Fletcher nocked the arrow and followed the river further down. He found quite the school and waited until two, maybe three would swim over the same stop. He fired. Catching two on the same arrow, much to his relief. One was still alive, unfortunately.

He continued, remarking that two with one arrow was by sheer luck. The rest he took out one by one before stringing them onto one arrow for an easier carry.

“Tarquin, Dinner!” Fletcher announced upon returning to the site. Tarquin had already tried building some form of shelter. He stabbed through a large leaf with a stick and hoped it would stay up, in case of rain.

“Tarquin are you trying to build shelter?”

“No, I’m binding a book, of course, I’m making shelter!” Tarquin shouted the last sentence.

“Well, you’re not going to get anywhere with that just sticks and rocks. Try the reeds instead. Anyway,” Fletcher set out the fish. “Guard these and don’t let anything get to them. Do you want me to build the fire?”

“I’d call it mandatory for you to do so. If you can”

Fletcher scoffed through his nose. He gathered a few twigs and a small patch of fur, which had a bit of blood in it, and focused the rest of his mana on creating the fire. But no flame came, and a burning erupted on his finger ad he reeled back. “Ah! Something’s keeping me from doing this…”

Tarquin sneered and nudged Fletcher off balance into the brush before trying himself. Soon enough a burning sensation struck his fingers, like he’s stuck his hand in a fire.

“Ah! Looks like we’re on our own for this.”

Fletcher looked around, and picked a chunk of rock then pulled his skinning knife. HE strick the rock a few times, cursing the moisture in the air. He hoped he wouldn’t set the forest alight as he tried to bring them warmth.

Sparks finally showed, and he breathed a sigh. They weren’t completely hopeless, yet.

He continued all while Tarquin sneered and said it wouldn’t work before the tinder caught a spark.

“I’ll admit, I’m impressed,” Tarquin scoffed.

Fletcher gave him a look before taking the fish back. Two T-shaped sticks stabbed in the dirt later and they had a spit. “Never eat this raw. I got sick from this stuff once… ” Fletcher muttered and roasted the fish over the fire, turning it slowly.

They ate in silence before Tarquin turned back to his makeshift home and curled under the leaf.  
\---  
Fletcher jolted awake with his quiver under his temple. He hauled himself up. Much to his chagrin, the fog was thicker and floated up to his thighs.

“Tarquin,” Fletcher turned to wake Tarquin, only to find a small pile of leaves and twigs were he laid. Fletcher cursed and strung his bow. His only option was to follow the river. And so he did.

The walk must have taken hours before he saw the sun overhead. Fletcher had a crawling feeling like something was watching him from behind or his side. He looked to his left and nocked the arrow.

Something was.

It darted out of sight before Fletcher could fire. A pair of yellow eyes with white pupils reappeared in front of him. Fletcher fired and the arrow landed between its eyes. He heard screeching the next second and ran towards the thing. It was humanoid and it was taller than he’d ever seen.

Its skin was grey. The thing’s legs were more bone than anything. Its rib cage was prominent, Fletcher almost fainted seeing the organs moved and squirm under its skin. Its head… oh dear gods, its head. The skin was nowhere to be seen, but its eyes and mouth were there.

Fletcher grabbed the arrow and yanked it out of the head before he could let the image sink in. He ran from the body and heard more rustling around him. Maybe it was he was going mad or something really was after him.

Fletcher nocked the bloodied arrow and aimed. He stopped by the river. He heard a roar behind him and wheeled around. He fired. The arrow hit the beast’s nose. Fletcher sat back against a tree and wiped the sweat from his brow. He began to wonder if he was in the Ether again. The portals showing up around the land weren’t unheard of. Then again, it wasn’t as Fletcher remembered it.

He hauled himself back up and took the arrow out. He followed the river until he heard voices. Muttering voiced that sounded angry. No, irritated. He plugged his ears, wondering if it was just him. No… it was real.

He slowly approached the talking and recognized it upon a closer listen.

“Damn it! Does Fletcher know when to sharpen this damn thing?!” Tarquin looked at the khopesh before sheathing it. He patted around and drew his own sword, a three-foot blade with the Forsyth crest engraved in the hilt.

Fletcher didn’t expect to catch up with him. He watched as Tarquin fished in the river, stabbing at a fish before making a fire.

Fletcher strolled further into the woods along the rover until he was in full view. “Fletcher!” Tarquin shouted. Fletcher flinched and looked at the river. Tarquin pulled the coat off him and hurled it at him. The latter stumbled back, dropping his bow and arrow to catch the jacket. He slipped it on and pulled his bow back out.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t expect that generosity out of me again. It smelled of you.” Tarquin grimaced.

“Good to know,” Fletcher said and nocked a clean arrow. He fired it into the water and skewered into more fish than expected. “Tarquin, how often did your father teach you to hunt?”

Tarquin stabbed at the water again and almost slipped getting out of the water.

“He spoke more about politics and Business than hunting. I didn’t think I’d need it so most lessons went ignored,” Tarquin said before hauling himself up the bank and sitting next to the fire, “Why, How long did your father teach you hunting.”

“Almost ten years.”

Tarquin looked at Fletcher, who was roasting his meals. “Ten years. Had a hell of trade, did you?”

“I couldn’t kill humans, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That would be barbaric.”

They didn’t speak until Fletcher got up to keep moving. “Can I have my khopesh back?” he said.

“This? Sure. it’s a shoddy thing, anyway.” Tarquin tossed the sword in the sheath at Fletcher.

He caught the blade and unsheathed it. He finished the fish and stood, unsheathing the blade. It was in excellent condition, Fletcher made sure of that. He shrugged and used it to cut at the branches before him.

For another ten yards, he followed the river until he heard more shuffling behind him. He nocked an arrow and aimed at the shifting leaves.

“Don’t shoot! It’s just me!”

Fletcher lowered the bow. “You’re following me?”

“Like it's a choice. I will admit this… ” Tarquin grimaced and swallowed his pride, something Fletcher was surprised about. “You know more than I do about this area of study. And who knows, maybe you commoners will be good for something after all.”

“Alright, but if you want to stay with me, you’re doing a share of the work. You can build fires and shelter and what have you. Seeing the demons nervous about coming here, I’d say this place is dangerous. We’ll take turns in Watch during sleep.”

“It’s a deal."


	2. What happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some god-awful reason, I decided to keep going with it. I didn't think I'd ever get to chapter 2, and I still don't know what possessed me to write down FIFTEEN Chapter Summaries before scrapping them.

They packed extra fish and fried jerky for the trip. Fletcher had unstrung his bow and stuffed it in with his arrows, to prevent stress on the wood. 

Fletcher and Tarquin, much to each other’s surprise, struck and swiped together at the branches and bushes before them. 

They didn’t speak until they reached the waterfall. A small one, at least three meters tall and had a rocky ledge Fletcher could climb it. 

He already had an idea, staring up at the waterfall, and he hoped it would work. “Get to bathing,” he said, “I have an idea.” 

He started climbing up onto the upper level before Tarquin could ask if it was a good one. 

“I’m going to see where we are. Maybe we can find civilization?” Fletcher waved over the edge and gestured to where he would be. The river this time was wider than where they first started. He couldn’t jump it, this time, and he landed right in the shallow part of the mouth. 

He continued up the path until he found a tree. He started climbing and balanced his feet against the top branches before searching. Tarquin, looking more refined than before, approached the base. 

Fletcher seemed to sense his presence there. “Alright, I see a village, but it’s another few kilometers.”

“How far exactly?”

“I estimate we can get there within the daylight. Finish up here so we can get a move on.”

Fletcher adjusted the strap on his quiver and strung his bow. 

Tarquin flinched, looking back when he heard the snap of twigs. “Fletcher, I think something’s behind us.”

“We’ll worry about it later. Start cutting a path, I’ll catch up.”

Fletcher slid down the trunk as Tarquin swung his blade to and fro in an arc before him. The greenery was getting rougher and rougher, from his observations. Maybe Fletcher had noticed it, too, but didn’t think too much of it. 

He glanced behind him as Fletcher looked back behind them. That didn’t give Tarquin much hope. Sure, his father taught him to hunt and be on the look out for predators, but Fletcher must have had more than a lifetime’s expertise on it. 

“What do you see?” Tarquin asked. 

“Nothing so far.” Fletcher looked up and beyond Tarquin. His expression darkened, and he nocked an arrow. “Heads up.” Without a flinch, Fletcher released the arrow into the greenland and the squeal of a cat made Tarquin flinch. 

“What was…?”

Tarquin made towards it but Fletcher caught him before he got far. “There’s another one, some--” Fletcher’s eyes widened, looking behind Tarquin. Another lion was perched on the rock behind him. 

Tarquin’s blood froze as he looked behind Fletcher.

Before Fletcher could move, Tarquin drew his sword and pushed Fletcher to the ground, bringing the sword up as the pouncing lion tried for the both of them. The one on the rock leapt for Tarquin but Fletcher pulled his knife and threw it.

Tarquin let the lion’s body slide off his blade as Fletcher pulled the knife from the other’s belly. The lion Fletcher stared down at didn’t try again and scurried off into the forest. 

Both struggled to steady their breathing, equally struggling to grasp at what had just happened. The fact they saved each other weighed heavily on their minds more than the fact they were just attacked by mountain lions. 

“You saved me,” Tarquin said. 

“You did, too.” Fletcher sheathed his knife and picked his bow and the arrow from the ground. 

“We never speak of this again,” Tarquin didn’t know why he let the words slip out, but Fletcher didn’t look impressed about it.

“Noted.” 

Fletcher had the head start, swinging his khopesh back and forth into the branches and bushes.   
\- - -  
There weren’t any attacks as they reached the village. A fire was still going and, to the villagers’ credit, it wasn’t spreading either. There was not a sign of life anywhere. 

“Hello?” Fletcher called out. 

Nothing. 

“Show yourselves!” Tarquin shouted.

“Put your sword away. I want to leave a good impression.”

Tarquin grimaced as he looked around the small straw cottages. Were they in Orc territory? It wasn’t like any he’d read about if that were the case. No bodies, no weapons, no signs of violence to be seen. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The baritone voice made them draw their weapons. No one could be that quiet unless they traveled by air. 

The man behind them was big with dirtied grey skin covered in scars and fresh cuts. He wore a long tunic made from fur. His hair was long and greasy, and dyed with something red. 

“Where are we?” Fletcher started. 

“You should go back from whence you came,” The man said. Like it helped. 

“We fell down here. Where’s a way out?” Tarquin tried. The man narrowed his eyes before giving them the advice they needed. 

“There’s a cliffside with a chamber, North from here. You’ll come across a few caves when you do. Don’t go in any of them. And watch for the man in the green cloak.”

“Understood,” the duo said, simultaneous. They took the man’s legs bending back as a sign they should go. They heard the man bound into the forest and his footsteps were more pronounced. 

“Who the hell was that?” Tarquin croaked. The scene of the man’s legs bending back like an animal's burned itself into his mind. The snap didn’t help. 

“Hell if I know. But we have a way out. I’m going to scout to where it might be. You have a compass?”

Tarquin took the time to pat at his pockets for something to help them. 

“Must have fallen out during the… you know.”

“Watch my back, I’m going to try and get a good look around.”

Fletcher started climbing and he eventually reached the top of a pine. 

“Alright, I see the cliff side. But I don’t see the chamber.”

“He was probably lying about it.”

“It’s the only lead we have. Plus, it looks like it’s the way we came in.”

Fletcher squinted. “It looks like it goes on forever.”

“What? Let me see!”

Tarquin, using his sword as leverage, hauled himself to near height where Fletcher was. “Ahh, hell, it may as well. Do you see the rest of them?”

“They’ve probably gone out to find help. We’ve been gone for about a day, now.”

Tarquin cursed as he started to make his way down. It wasn’t as easy as Fletcher made it seem nad he almost cut his foot on the blade. 

“Let’s just find another source of water. If we’re lucky, we’ll find another cascade.” Fletcher said and adjusted the strap on his quiver. Tarquin yanked the sword from the tree and started swinging around at the shrubbery.  
\- - -   
They found a waterfall and it was bigger than the last one. Fletcher took his time to cleanse himself before he raised his hands above his head as if in prayer before drinking out of it. 

He spat the water back out into the river before repeating it another three times. 

“Well, at least you know you needed it more,” Tarquin remarked. 

Fletcher ignored the jibe and stepped out of the makeshift bath, his muscles still tense. 

“What happened at that little prison anyway?” Tarquin couldn’t help but eye the scars on Fletcher’s back. Some came from burns, some came from the whip. One, in particular, stood out: a brand mark of a small X by the small of his back. 

Fletcher didn’t notice the eyes on him as he dressed, “The usual. Didric came by a few times to mock me, but I was mostly left alone.”

His clothes were still damp but they weren’t difficult to put on. 

He felt like he couldn’t walk another step. It didn’t matter, anyway, Fletcher thought as he took a glance at the setting sun. “I’m going to hunt for a bit. Setup camp while I’m gone.”

Tarquin undressed and took his time picking at the dirt on his skin before moving on to clean his clothes.   
\- - -  
Fletcher had been gone for more than ten minutes and for a second, Tarquin felt worried. He shook the feeling off quickly. Where the hell did that concern come from? 

He was a Forsyth for the Gods’ sake! He doesn’t care about that peasant boy. Besides, why should he be worried? He could hunt, he had his sword, after all. He could sneak up on a deer and strike it down. 

He started to move to begin the search when the bushes started to move. 

“Sorry it took a while.”

The deer was still alive when Fletcher brought it into view. He looked exhausted, swaying back and forth during his intended path. He was covered in blood, mud, and grass. 

Without much care, he dropped the deer onto the ground, causing it to squeal. It struggled against it bonds but Fletcher got to it first. He plunged the knife into the deer’s side and tore it open.

“What happened?” Tarquin asked. He glanced down at the fire he made, and then at the shelter. 

Fletcher paused, looking up from his work, then at Tarquin with skepticism written clear on his face. He didn’t expect him to care if he was honest, and it took him a moment to register that. “I just got into some trouble.” 

“Nothing you couldn’t handle it seems.” Tarquin leaned back against the tree as Fletcher began to prepare the meat. 

The skinning process Fletcher used was nothing like Tarquin was used to when he was hunting. It was messier, though it may be just Fletcher’s way of doing things, and he set the pelt aside. 

“I don’t have many tools here, but I can probably make a blanket for you.”

“That would be best.”

Tarquin watched as Fletcher washed the pelt clean of blood and wrenched it out before hanging it on the tree like it was a shirt. 

Fletcher didn’t respond and started ridding himself of his clothes. Blood, both his and his opponent’s soaked the old furs. 

“How’d you get that mark?”

“The what?” Fletcher didn’t turn back as he stepped into the flowing water. 

“The Mark! The X.”

Fletcher paused from washing his hair. 

“It was from the prisons. It marked me as a prisoner. In case I escaped.”

A lie, though not complete. Tarquin frowned. Why lie about it? He asked himself. 

“You can eat you know, just turn the arrow.” Fletcher gestured towards the spit from the curtain of water. 

The river was stained red by the time he stepped out. The meat remained untouched, much to his surprise. 

“I was thinking.” Tarquin turned away from the meat. 

“Now, I’m getting worried,” Fletcher muttered. 

“Hmm… Perhaps Commoners shouldn’t be funny.” Tarquin sneered. 

“Perhaps Royals need a sense of humor.”

“You’re always so crude, it’s a miracle you’re alive.”

“I’m crude anywhere I go. It’s just not called that in my standards.”

“Maybe you need to get with the time, then.”

Fletcher rolled his eyes as he put on his trousers and sat down in a smooth patch of dirt across from him. Tarquin continued to push the question. 

“What happened at those prisons, anyway?”

“I told you,” Fletcher didn’t look up as he turned the meat on the stick. 

“Yes, but I want to see you squirm,” Tarquin remarked. 

“I was just left alone for a year, given food every once in a while, etcetera. Nothing new.”

“Why the mark, then?”

“Why is that so interesting, do you want to brand your prisoners?”

“Heavens, no!”

“Then you’ll shut up about it.”

“You’re awfully defensive about it.”

“Yes, people get defensive about things they don’t want to talk about.”

“Why don’t you like talking about it, then?”

“Because I don’t like to. Now Shut up!”

“This is quite a spine you have here.”

“That and the time I kicked your ass?” 

Tarquin opened his mouth to snap back, but Fletcher shot him a dark look. It was something so out of character for him, he flinched. 

“Let’s just say the conscripts needed something to mess with,” Fletcher said, softly. 

Tarquin didn’t want to make assumptions, but with that single confirmation, he didn’t have the choice to. The scenarios forced their way into his mind and he looked down at the meat, his appetite lost. He could have sworn he was shaking. 

“I’m going to bed,” he said finally. 

“Hang on.” Fletcher stopped him. He reached over to the skin and tossed it at Tarquin. It made him squirm. 

“I’ll keep a watch for the night.”  
\---  
Tarquin woke but Fletcher pressed him back down. 

He smelled something rotting and he guessed it was the old meat. 

They listened to the footsteps, as they passed. 

“Remember when the man said to beware the man in green?”

“You saw it?”

It was almost impossible to see through the darkness but then something in the darkness shifted. It was hunched over, taller than any man either of them had seen, and it was wearing a tunic out of leather. 

It was watching them. 

They held still as the thing started to approached, sniffing all the while until it came to them.


	3. The Hunter

The thing sniffed at them, Tarquin feared he was shaking but then it pulled away and headed towards the meat still on the spit. It took the arrow with it and started eating as it trudged along the path. 

They didn’t know how long they stayed there until the dawning sky came. 

Tarquin felt like he could breathe again. 

“How’d you know that would work?”

“I didn’t.”

“What?!”

“Just wash, the blood smelled horrible enough I hoped it would deter it.” 

The river ran red again, by the time they both finished. Tarquin stared at Fletcher, more specifically his head. It wasn’t shiny from natural oil. 

“How do you keep your hair like that?” Tarquin asked. 

“Like what?”

“Neat. Not as greasy. I swear, mine’s getting worse and worse as the days go by… ” Tarquin pushed the hair back from his face. 

“I’ll get you the berries needed. Let’s just get back to moving.”

Dressing quickly, they listened for any external causes of movement. 

“Alright, I saw the cliffside again, and we’re further out. I saw a few caves, so he wasn’t lying about that.”

“Pardon?”

“The man with the tunic.”

“So, he wasn’t lying.”

“Yes... Anyway, we can probably camp out near there in a few days time.”

Tarquin recalled the man’s words. “Don’t enter the caves.” Or something along those lines. but he didn’t see why. He could have guessed the thing they saw last night was the reason, but he hoped it wasn’t the case. 

He strapped his sword sheath around his waist and adjusted it accordingly.

Tarquin felt like Fletcher took his time, but he had both his sword and his bow, he reminded himself. 

“Are you finished yet?”

“I don’t want my sword to be stuck in the scabbard.”

Fletcher finished oiling his sword before sheathing it. 

“It looks like we can go down this river, with the water. Maybe we can find a foot hold to get up, from there.”

“That might work.”

“Hopefully, the others started a search party. Let’s just hope we make it easier for them.”

He adjusted his quiver then his sword sheath on his back. He patted his belt for his skinning knife. 

They started the trudge down into the mud, and damp dirt.  
\- - -  
“Hurry up, I think I hear something.”

”Oh, Shut up, I’m only human!”

Fletcher hitched his trousers up, as a few more rustling leaves caught his attention. 

“Alright, don’t leave yet, I hear something.”

“I hear it, too.

There was a silence as Fletcher nudged the lump of dirt back into the hole before he realized why Tarquin probaably hadn’t come into view yet. “I have my trousers on! And it’s buried.”

There was no response. 

“Tarquin, I swear—” He gasped. 

It was about time he’d seen the damn thing, but he regretted the wish, now. It was the beast from the night before, there was no mistaking it. It was large, almost twice as. Big and a full grown orc, and it held Tarquin in one hand like he was a doll. The only hair it had was on its head, long and stringy and it went down to its knees, veiling its chest. Until it turned to face him, Fletcher guessed it was female. 

“What are you?”

He drew his khopesh, having no time to string his bow and nock and arrow before it took off into the woods with Tarquin’s unconscious body. 

“Hey!” Fletcher took off after it without thinking but he lost it in a matter of minutes. Its heavy foot steps left large prints in the dirt, much to his relief. But he doubted he could find Tarquin in time to save him. 

Fletcher cursed, as he started to follow the prints.  
\- - -  
Tarquin jerked awake, reeling about the last encounter with Fletcher. 

“You’re awake,” the voice didn’t sound like it was alone, like multiple people at once spoke. 

“What?” Tarquin attempted to speak, but his voice was lost, and it came out as a meager squeak. He reached up to his throat, embarrassed at his own voice. 

“Don;t feel too bad. I’m sure your little friend will come for you,” the thing said. 

“He’s not my friend,” Tarquin sputtered out. 

“Then he should have no problem abandoning you for the cliffside.”

Tarquin went silent, wondering what the thing would do to Fletcher if he did end up finding them. “What do you want with him?” He asked. 

“Simple. A hunt.” The thing said it so normally, like it was discussing the weather. 

Tarquin wondered how long this thing had been doing this. Years? Decades? Centuries, even? 

This thing wanted a hunt. A human to hunt at that, what kind of sick thing would do that? 

“Why?”

“I’ve been watching you and him. He’s loyal to a fault, even to an ass like you. He would volunteer his own life for his friends, but, since none of them are here, you’ll do. Fortunately for me, he knows what he’s doing and he’ll track me down to find you.”

“What makes you think he’ll succeed? He will. How do you think he found that elf girl in your first year?”

Tarquin’s blood froze. The thing had been watching them for a long time. 

“The forest isn’t in a crater for nothing, you know.” The thing finished. 

The gravity of the situation seemed to dawn on Tarquin. He wasn’t sure anymore if he could live without a helping hand. He would have been more comfortable with someone he knew personally, but Fletcher had to do. Then there was the frightening question Tarquin didn’t want to ask. 

“What happens if you catch him?”

“Well, I figured it would be obvious to you. My hunts tend to be practical.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Tarquin’s stomach churned, audibly and more out of sickness than of hunger. 

“Don’t worry. If you help me with this, I’ll let you have first bite, and a way out,” it said, noting Tarquin’s expression. 

Tarquin turned away from the thing and dry-heaved before he knew it. 

He felt the large hand stroke his back, which didn’t help matters. 

“Don’t worry, He’s nothing more than a commoner to you. I’m sure when he’s gone, you won’t lost anything.”

“This is... ” Tarquin gasped. “...Barbaric!”

“This is nature,” The thing cooed. He tilted Tarquin’s head to face him again. “Don’t worry about him, anyway. Besides, it doesn’t make a difference whether he’s alive or dead, now that you have me. Remember, I can get you out of here.”

Tarquin was silent, still struggling to process he was nothing more than bait. 

“Why not do it now, then?”

“Someone’s eager... ” The thing sneered. 

“That’s not—”

“I told you. I like to hunt my food. It’s no fun when they just give up.”

“Why?”

The thing seemed to shrug. 

“It’s just not as fun.”

Tarquin looked out into the forest again, expecting to see or hear the target.  
\- - -  
Fletcher swiped at the branches and shrubbery in his path, limping as he did. He stumbled forward, catching himself on a tree before he hit a rough patch of dirt. 

“How’d I get in this again?” he whispered to himself. He recalled the fight. The demon they tried to fight was large, and it backed both him and Tarquin by the cliff before he turned the tables. That backfired. 

He began shouting Tarquin’s name, in hopes he was still alive, or awake for that matter.

By the time dusk came again, he settled in another spot near a waterfall. He had a deer leg over a spit and roasting. Fletcher drank heavily from the water, not realizing he had exerted more out of himself than he did the past few days until then. Under the water, he rinsed his mouth out and spat before stepping out. 

He froze when he did, taking a single glance at the scene. The meat was gone, but the arrow sat above the fire, charred beyond use. 

He swore loudly before dressing and stringing his bow. 

He trudged along the path, irate at his luck before nocking an arrow. He stayed by the river and watched for a sign of life. Something, anything. Fish, deer, rabbit, anything. 

He watched with intent as he took aim at a doe lowering its head to the water. He also noted the calves with it. He paused, lowering the stress on his bow, pondering. There had to be a father around here, if they’re out there.

Fletcher raised the bow again and took aim. 

The arrow flew through the eyes, missing the other side’s by a hair. 

He thanked whatever was watching him that he’d get dinner that night. 

he started the climb down but a blue of grey, green flew across it. The thing took the deer and the calves, leaving a small trail of blood in its wake. 

“Hey!” He shouted and jumped the rest of the way down. He landed in the river, his ankles sting at the sudden landing. Then he tore after it once reaching land. 

”That’s my dinner!” Fletcher shouted after it. He ducked and wove through the branches and shrubbery in his way. 

If he had the back legs of a deer’s, he would be grateful. He always wondered how those thing could get away so quickly. 

He could hear both his heart and his stomach as he began to lose sight of the thing. 

His heart jumped when his foot caught something and flew forward into the base of a pine. His head thundered and he no longer heard the sound of footsteps. 

He pulled his head up, his sight blurry with the ache and his nose was bleeding. He spat out a tooth and adjusted himself to roll over on his back, the quiver being the only thing to keep him off the ground. 

He shook, reaching up to his face and trying to keep from bleeding all over, but his hand dropped at his chest, having no energy left to do that simple notion. 

He listened to the rustling twigs snapping and he tried to move his head. 

“Tarquin?” He gasped before the darkness took hold.  
\- - -  
He felt the hands of someone on his chest and his entire body clenched. There was no light. And he couldn’t scream. 

GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME

The mystery being didn’t stop, and the hands kept up their path towards his belt. 

GET OUT

Fletcher couldn’t breathe, his time in the cells came back to him. Was it all a dream? Had he dreamt the trial? Had he dreamt his freedom? The reality started to come down on him, even as the hands continued to move. 

STOP

There was no use stopping it as Fletcher started thrash violently.

GET AWAY

The hands struggled to hold him still. The single pair of hands turned into two, and they held his legs down. A larger pair of hands, colder, clammier, held him down by his shoulders. 

The first pair started binding his legs with thick cloth. 

The larger hands hung him upside down, as the first took both wrists and tied them behind his back. 

STOP, YOU SICK FUCK

Fletcher gasped through his gag. 

He let out a muffled yell, shortly after. Maybe someone in the darkness could hear it? He could only hope. 

The dark space reminded him of Pelt’s Dungeons and his breathing began to increase. Where was he and why? 

He let out another muffled scream, this one was cracked, less bold than the first. The humid air was making it harder to breathe, 

“Ahh! You’re awake! I was afraid you’d knock yourself out before the fun began.”

“What are you?” Fletcher tried to say. 

The thing threw its head back and laughed. “Hang on.”

With a swift swipe downwards, with the precision Fletcher had never seen in anything before, the cloth fell onto both sides of his neck and Fletcher heaved a breath. He breathed too quickly and he started coughing. 

“Come now, don’t be too dramatic.” The thing scoffed. 

“What—” another cough, “—Are you?”

“For now, I’m your host. And it’s not nice to say ‘what’. It’s ‘who’. As for that question, call me Porthos.”

Fletcher looked behind the thing—Porthos—and saw Tarquin behind him, bound and gagged.

“You son of a wh—” 

“Ah-ah! Language! And don’t worry about him selling you up the river. On the bright side, it’s only you I want. Well, the bright side for him, at least.” Porthos pointed his thumb over his shoulder, at Tarquin. 

“What do you want from me?”

“Hmm... I’m sure by now you’ve notice the forest isn’t in a cliff.”

Fletcher froze, staring up at the thing. It seemed to go on forever, he had said. 

“See, I’ve been watching the two of you for a while now. All of you. And thank god my latest brought you here. I aimed for all of you and your friends, but, two should fill me until then.”

“You said I’d be free if I helped you!” Tarquin shouted, then he realized his mistake. 

Fletcher shot Tarquin a glare so hateful it would outmatch his own. If Fletcher didn’t get to the boy first, then the monster would. 

“Well, now that that’s settled. Here’s how it’ll go down. You will have a day’s head-start. Plot, trap whatever, until you hear the horns. Then you start running. If you can outlast me in three days time, I’ll help you up the cliffside. If not... Well, you know.”


	4. Tricks

Tarquin always dismissed the adage, “Beware the Nice Ones.” Now, he knew what it meant. Fletcher wouldn’t bother with trying to help him. Instead, Tarquin watched as his only hope of surviving this damnable deal raced out the entrance and back into the wilderness. 

He reached the rim of the cave, feeling the eyes of Porthos behind him. 

Figures he would turn on him. He didn’t know why he thought Porthos could be trusted. Desperation? His hatred towards Fletcher? No, not that last one. The hatred wasn’t as strong as it was before. Not after he saved everyone... 

“You’d better run. Sunset is approaching,” Porthos didn’t look up from the deer over a fire when he spoke. 

“You think Fletcher’s going to make it?”

Porthos looked up at the ceiling of the cave in thought. “Well, I’ll admit this: No. Most of the promising victims end up as my food in the end.”

“Has anyone gotten away?”

“Ha, of course not!” Porthos laughed. 

Tarquin’s blood froze as he looked back out into the forest. Then he started his trek.   
—   
Fletcher swung his sword to and fro as he made his way back to the waterfalls, his mind raced with anger at his current predicament. 

He found a large cascade, and he kept it in mind for another hiding spot. Three days, he recalled. There was no such thing as too many hiding spots. 

Who knew what Tarquin would do, now: He was double-crossed and doomed to a death that Fletcher almost wouldn’t wish on him. Almost. 

I’ll get you, Tarquin, Fletcher thought. You, and your band of...

He failed to think of an insult so vile that Berdon would scrub his mouth out with soap for days.

His sword struck something hard, snapping him out of his vengeful thoughts. The shock shot through his arm and it went limp, dropping his weapon. 

The rock didn’t shift, and he picked his sword up and sheathed it. He got to climbing. 

The rock wasn’t high, but it took enough exertion from Fletcher that he had to sit down. He took out his water skin and drank heavily, patting the dry organ until the last drop fell. 

He fiddled with the cork as he stared out. 

The forest was vast, and he found the place where they fell in the first place. But Porthos was right, the forest was an arena.

He slid off the rock, and back by the waterfall. 

His boots splashed in the river, and he stumbled forward when one of the soles slipped on a wet rock underneath. 

He cursed, and he continued to get up.  
—  
Tarquin’s journey through the forest wasn’t a long one. He didn’t make it too far before freezing in the setting sun. 

The cave was meters behind him before he took off in a sprint. 

“Fletcher!” 

He didn't know how long he'd been running and finding Fletcher would be by sheer luck. He ducked behind a tree when he heard Porthos’s heavy steps storm through the trees. 

Porthos plundered through the shrubbery like it was wet paper, leaving a trail of stamped leaves and branches in his wake. 

Tarquin wasted no time and retreated back around the rim of the arena. 

Maybe he could scale it? 

He doubted even Fletcher would think up something to help them up. Considering the dirt dumbs falling every few seconds, he also doubted makeshift equipment would hold.   
—  
Fletcher’s ears perked when he heard the thunder of the storm. The noise itself started off as a soft roll before getting louder and louder. Looking up at the sky, he realized the storm wasn’t nowhere close enough to be that loud. 

He plunged through the waterfall and listened to the rushing water before Porthos appeared behind the curtain of water. 

Sopping and free from his sweat, Flecher glanced behind him and hoped for the best. He backed away from the waterfall, into a cave. He stopped at the entrance and steeled his nerves as he watched Porthos shift and attempt to track him. Fletcher couldn’t help but, now armed with only his arrows and his khopesh, he wondered what he could do if Porthos found nothing and took his stuff. 

He slipped into the cave, just beyond the entrance, and at first, Porthos was about to leave. 

By Gods, it was dark. He couldn’t see three feet beyond him and any attempt to light the way would be futile. Venturing in too deep would surely mean death, a slow and painful death of suffocation, starvation, drowning if there was too much water, and/or dehydration. 

Fletcher slowed his breathing when Porthos passed through the waterfall with the ease of taking a shower. 

“Where are you? I know you’re here, somewhere... ”

Porthos sniffed, approaching the cave and Fletcher reached for his sword. If he could, he could make a break for it, stab Porthos and run. The idea tempted him, and his fight reflex was starting to take over when another idea intruded. 

He slipped an arrow free. It was a bad arrow, curved and well worn and turned into a decoy. 

He stopped further into the cave and prayed to any god that was listening that this would work. He gripped it like he was about to throw in a game of darts. His boots crunching ever so slightly on the rocks as he reached deeper in. Then threw it in blind. The arrow hit something and Porthos charged inside in a blur of grey and green. 

He stormed the cave, his footsteps echoing through and Fletcher took his chance. He rushed from the cave, watching his footing as he stepped carefully on the wet rocks and went around the cascade of water. 

He grabbed his pack and slung it over his shoulder as he sprinted out intot he wilderness. When the waterfall was well out of earshot, he slowed to a walk and breathed a sigh when he heard the natural sound of birds and bugs.   
—  
Night fall, and Tarquin was starving for something that wasn’t fish. 

He had stabbed a few and he was turning the stick slowly over the fire. He wondered how the hell Fletcher could do this on a daily basis. 

Tarquin missed his family, that was evident, but the creeping feeling that he missed Fletcher as well was starting to weigh on him. He wondered if Isadora and the others defeated the monster and were on their way down, but he doubted the latter. 

By the time he snapped out of his thoughts, the tips of the flames engulfed the fish and Tarquin cursed when a chip of scales peeled from the flesh. He scrambled back and pulled the skewer from the flames. He scoffed and dunked it in the river before splitting it open and feasting around the bone. 

At this point, if he said that he knew what he was doing, then he would be lying. 

He wondered how the hell the Forscythes would recover considering his father’s long incarceration. The truth that his family started a war for profit didn’t help matters and even that truth was leaked to the public. Tarquin started to panic that his family’ estate would be torn down and rebuilt into who-knew- what.

Damned if he came home and damned if he didn’t. Gods, when did his life get so messed up beyond repair? 

He finished the last of the meat before tossing the bones in the river. 

“I can smell your moping from here,” Tarquin wheeled around on the spot as Porthos sniffed him like a dog. 

“Hmm… Like old meat and pity. Like a meal before the killing only more pathetic,” he snarled. 

“Why are you here?”

“Your companion is…interesting for his kind. He’s already outsmarted me once.”

“He’s not my companion.”

“No, I supposed he wouldn’t be.”

“What do you want?” Tarquin stood, backing up. 

“Tell me, you want to get out of here, right?”

“Yes… ” Tarquin answered, skeptical of the question. 

“What if I allowed magic here?”

Tarquin did’t let any time for the shock ot settle in before he bellowed out, “You can do that?!”

“Well, I suppose it would give that boy an upper hand,” Porthos gave a dark laugh.

“That’s fine,” Tarquin said, softly. 

“But… ” He added. 

Tarquin’s heart sank. 

“You have to be in my Hunt, as well. Starting,” Porthos looked up at the sky before turning back down, “tomorrow night.”

“What makes you think I’ll agree?”

“Because I saw you and that boy saving each other from the my mountain lions days ago and I know you value him.”

“That incident meant nothing. I hate being indebted to people.”

“So I can safely assume that the only reason you went back to him was for personal gain, yes?”

“How long have you been watching us?”

“Since you arrived? I can sense every soul, but never the location. I’m not that good.”

“Fine.”

“Fine?” Porthos gave him a quizzical look. 

“Give us our magic back and you can hunt me with Fletcher.”

“Well, then, tomorrow night, you will be targeted. Do not expect mercy from me again from this point on.”

“Oh, I won’t.”

Tarquin didn’t feel the magic come to him immediately, but he took the first chance to run, which was after the agreement.   
—  
The trek out and far from that cave was long and Fletcher prayed and prayed that Porthos wouldn’t find him until the next day. His muscles ached; less so as he slumped against a rock. The waterfall this time was bigger and had a few steady streams beside it. 

Fletcher started cleaning his blade of the shrub stains and blood before stripping himself of his dirty clothes and started the necessary wash. 

The full moon bore down on Fletcher by the time he finished and he laid back, setting up a decoy fire another few kilometers from where he was with a raw roast cooking. 

It had been a while since he took a look at the stars. He was professionally trained in astronomy or cartography, but he could map out the direction he could take to get back to the cliffs and, potentially, a way out.

He didn’t know why, but he felt his finger flare and out of a stupid hunch, he raised a tattooed finger towards the sky to trace out the patterns of the stars before his finger caught fire. 

He gasped and slapped a hand over his mouth to keep from making too much sound. 

“Oh my gods, Magic. My powers are back,” he steadied his breathing as he snapped his fingers and watched the built fire flare and expand. 

He tampered the flames with another snap and they lessened. 

“Gods, yes!” he yipped before extending a hand out in front of him. 

For the first time in days, he saw Ignatius. 

The Dragon sprouted free in a flurry of fire before manifesting. Large enough to carry five riders, Fletcher just found his way out. 

Ignatius stretched his wings but his behavior was quickly turning for the worse. He reared and roared as if Fletcher was no more than a stranger before raking his claws through the air. 

“Wait, buddy, it’s me!”

That was the last thing Fletcher said before his body was flung to the side with a four gnarly gashes across his chest. 

He bit his tongue, hoping he wasn’t making too much sound in the night. Ignatius seemed to glow as he flapped his wings and started to rise from the ground. 

The adrenaline that came with the fear of his survival started to pump through Fletcher’s veins with every pulse of blood. He scrambled to get up and reach out to Ignatius, but the dragon was high enough he wouldn’t make it. 

Fletcher watched in horror as he seemed to reach the perimeter that reduced Ignatius to a fearful state. 

Fletcher felt through their link that Ignatius was not himself. Far from it. He didn’t know what was with the forest, but it made them fear it beyond comprehension. 

By then, Fletcher’s hand was soaking in cooling blood and, any moment then, Porthos could be on his trail. His right trail, this time. 

He needed another deer, or at least another corpse to cover his tracks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up revising some of the ending bits where the duo get their magic back. I completely forgot that Fletcher had the summoning patch on his hand, rather than just the spells and basic forms. I need to brush up on my lore again, it’s been actual years since I read this.


End file.
